


you could have been beautiful, could have been great

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Mutants, F/M, M/M, Multi, Nazis, Nonbinary Character, Other, Torture, Trans Character, but nothing graphic, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire isn't all-knowing, but it's a near thing.  It also, ultimately, doesn't matter.</p>
<p><em>or, of course:</em> Grantaire is Charles Xavier, Enjolras is Erik Lensherr.  They meet, and everything goes straight to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. what the water gave me

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for [mutant les mis week](http://tumblr.com/tagged/mutant-les-mis-week) and is an in progress piece. i am going to attempt to post a chapter a day for the duration of the week.

This is where it begins.Or rather, this is where it begins for the historians and the artists.It is not the beginning, but it is where the storied quality begins.

The ocean is cold and dark, the wet salt sticking _more_ , almost, than it should.A long tail of blonde curls are loose and dark with it, almost sticky with it, and the owner of that ponytail is wrapped in a tight black wetsuit.

He is not a hero.He will become feared all over the world but he is not a hero for it.He is not, even, always a _he_.

Tonight he is a he, and has the potential to be a hero, and he courses through the dark water, unknowing.

Of course, he knows _some_ things.The shape and weight and heft of the boat in front of him, the speed of its propellor, the dozen names of the man who owns it, who cut him up and spat him out and made him _bleed_ _out_ his becoming.

The man has an entourage, but for him it does not matter.He has been chasing him for a dozen years, since he had the opportunity to disappear.After all, he hadn’t been said to exist in first place.

Neither of them should exist, by common understanding.

The man in the water continues to cut through the water.The man on the boat speaks to his companion, who is pale and sharp and blinks twice before responding.

This is where it begins.

—

Another man stands on another boat.It is the same night, and he is surrounded by a different kind of ocean, just as deadly.

But in between the waves, the man in the water cuts through, and the man on the second boat recognizes him both for what he is and for what he is trying to do.He turns to his own companion, with her fashionable, sensible haircut, and whispers, “There’s someone else, there’s someone else, _in the water_.”

She doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t matter,He races through the boat, to its aft, barely thinking to toe off his own shoes before he dives, dives, dives.

He finds the man in the water, because it is easier to focus when there is no one immediately present but the water pressing on his ears and the constant focused fugue of the man in the water’s thoughts.They beat and beat and beat, a wave just a second out of time with the water itself.

He knows without being fully conscious of knowing it, that this man is like him, and he is not sure quite how it’s so but it is so.

He is twenty-seven years old and he has never known someone to feel like this.Not even his sometimes-sister with her shapechanging.This man in the water is something new and different and _rejuvenating_.

But more than that, this man in the water is doomed.He’s trying to stop the boat. 

They collide in the water, and he clings to the man in the water like a life raft.On contact, he is blasted with full, complete, perfect knowledge.

He wants to be sick right there in the ocean.

“Enjolras, Enjolras,” he says, he repeats.“Enjolras, let him go, you’re going to drown.”

They sink, briefly, and when their heads break the surface again, the blonde man is staring at him in fear.“What?”

“You’re not alone,” he says desperately.“ _You’re not alone_.”

— 

They shiver on the deck of the boat.Agent Fauchelevent makes sure they get blankets and coffee, and they look at each other.She tells him again to “please, call me Cosette.”

“Who are you?” Enjolras asks, his eyes intensely blue and his hair beginning to dry to a distinctly golden blonde.

“Grantaire,” he replies.“I — I guess you know what I can do.”

“You got inside my head.I _heard_ you.”  His accent is vaguely European, which is strange, because Grantaire knows he's French by birth.

Grantaire nods.“You were going to drown, and I couldn’t let that happen.I’ve never met — I’ve never met someone with an ability like yours.”

“An ability like mine?”

“The metal.How does it work?”Grantaire doesn’t mean to ask, doesn’t mean to pry, but the idea of someone else with that much power startles him, makes the gears in his head turn like nothing else.

Enjolras turns his face away, his profile like a Greek hero.“That’s what Shaw wanted to find out.”

Grantaire blinks, nods.“Oh.I’m sorry.”

“You looked into my head.How do you do that?”

“I couldn’t explain it if I tried.I’m sorry that I had to, but you were going to drown and —“

“And you couldn’t let that happen.”

“…Right.”

They’re quiet for the rest of the boat ride, quiet as they climb into the dark car Agent Fauchelevent has waiting for them at the dock.

It’s not a companionable silence, and Grantaire starts to catalogue what he saw in Enjolras’s head.It’s the war, in full Technicolor, and more than the war, it’s the camps and the doctors and Shaw, always Shaw.

Shaw killed everyone Enjolras loved when the Nazis took Paris.Shaw broke a child open and turned him into a weapon and a science experiment.

And now Frankenstein’s monster is seeking his revenge on his creator.

Grantaire shivers again, cold with knowing.

This is why he doesn’t, as a rule, go too deep into other people’s heads.There’s always something wounded and vicious inside people, trying to claw its way out.

Enjolras’s wounds are just much closer to the surface than most people’s, that’s all, a thin scab over every open gaping wound.

Grantaire is afraid of him, just a little.

—

Claquesous is waiting for them at the motel, lean and sharp and suspicious.Androgynous, too, tonight, hips flaring wide, flat chest, long hair, feminine face and Adam’s apple.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Enjolras.”Enjolras is just as suspicious of Claquesous as Claquesous is of Enjolras.It hovers in the air, too thick to block out.

Grantaire sighs.“He’s one of us, Claquesous.”

Claquesous nods, careful and still not trusting — Claquesous has never been willing to trust people, and it _has_ gotten the two of them out of some sticky situations.“What do you do?”

“I control metal,” Enjolras says, and it seems there’s a current of understanding between the two that Grantaire isn’t privy to.

He’ll have to ask Claquesous, when he gets the chance.

“Well,” Agent Fauchelevent interjects, “We should probably all get some sleep.I do have to bring you to Special Ops in the morning.”

Her tone is gentle, but brooks no argument.

For the third time today, Grantaire wonders if she’s as baseline human as she seems.He puts the thought aside.

Another thing to deal with, on another day.


	2. he stumbled into faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the crew makes it to Special Ops and meets a new mutant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hell yes i have managed to post two days in a row this is an achievement for me!!

Claquesous looks like a woman in the morning, slimly curved and lightly muscular, grey-eyed and red-headed when she informs him “I’m a girl today, René,” with a low, curt voice.

The redhead is one of her favorite forms, and the one most people know her by, if they know her at all.  Heléne Le Cabuc is the name that goes with that face, the one on her forged official documentation, the one on her high school diploma and her police record.

Grantaire just nods at her and climbs into his change of clothes before slipping out of the room.  The five of them have three rooms in this motel, which must be costing the CIA some change, but Agent Fauchelevent had just smiled and told him not to worry last night when he’d asked her if he needed to pony up for their new guest.

He knocks on Enjolras’s door, shaking off the low guilt thrumming in his gut.

Enjolras cracks open the door, enough for Grantaire to see one blue eye, sharp and brightly awake.  The door opens a little more as Enjolras seems to realize that it’s him.

Grantaire brushes against his mind gently, trying to feel out the situation.

_Suspicion.  Interest.  Reluctance._   Enjolras is firing on all cylinders this early in the morning, apparently.  “What is it?"

“What, no good morning?”  Grantaire smirks a little, teasing to try and steady the situation.

Enjolras opens the door all the way, gesturing for Grantaire to come inside.  “I didn’t sleep.  I’d barely realized it was in fact morning, until you came in.”

Grantaire nods.  “Ah.”  

"Sit."  Enjolras turns around, crouches to retrieve something from the nightstand drawer.

"Do you not sleep, is that a thing?" Grantaire asks, sitting down on the corner of the bed.  "Because I'm sure we can accommodate that."

Enjolras straightens, and his look burns with the force of how unimpressed he is.  He has a bible in his hands -- obviously the one the motel provides.  Grantaire cocks his head as Enjolras tosses the book down next to him.

He picks it up, opens it.  The inside front cover is pencilled thick with questions, as though they're questions Enjolras can't be bothered to ask face to face, skulking on the other side of this bed as he is.  The first one is _Why are you after Shaw?_

"He's doing...something...with the Soviets," Grantaire answers, breezily snapping the book shut.  "Missiles, I think?  I was nursing a hangover and trying to convince a board of stuffy old White American bureaucrats that I actually did exist.  Something about missiles, anyway."  He puts the book down.  "Why won't you ask these questions like a normal person?"

Enjolras huffs.  "Couldn't you just pick my brain for that?"

"I've been told that's impolite."  Grantaire half-smiles, and the bitterness is clear, because Enjolras's eyes go a little wide in response.

"You _could_ , though.  And unless you said something, I wouldn't even know you'd done it."  Enjolras is still suspicious, but there's a calculating edge to his suspicion now -- as though he's trying to figure out how he can _use_ Grantaire in this situation.

Grantaire isn't used to being looked at as a tool.  He finds he doesn't like it.

Neither did Enjolras, he reminds himself, and that's why they're here.

"I won't ask you to trust me, but I'm not going to go rifling through your head again," Grantaire says, quietly.  "So try and communicate with me like you'd communicate with anyone else."

Before Enjolras can reply, there's a swift set of knocks on the door, the rat-a-tat-tat of military precision.

Agent Fauchelevent, then, probably.  Reaching out with his awareness confirms it.

Grantaire stands, slipping the bible into his pocket, as Enjolras goes to the door.

\--

The Special Ops building is fairly modern in its construction, and the cheerful CIA woman who runs the facility chatters about what it contains.  Grantaire isn't paying attention, not really.  He's watching Enjolras, who seems to _spark_ in daylight as they move up the walkway to the building.

_He's_ listening attentively to everything Agent Whatshername is saying, like he's expecting to need the knowledge later.

Grantaire watches him, and then turns his attention to their surroundings again as they go inside.  Grantaire reaches out with his mind again, trying to determine who else might be in the building -- surprises are not something they need tonight.

Down in the hangar, there's a black boy with sharp eyes and fashion-current glasses.  He's thinking about what Agent Whatshisname -- Agent _Houcheloup,_ all right, he should probably stop forgetting the woman's name -- had said, about Special Ops having special visitors at last.  _Mutants, Dr. Combeferre, we've got mutants on our hands!_

Combeferre himself is a mutant, Grantaire realizes abruptly as they walk into the hangar.

Enjolras cocks his head.  "And this is?"

"I'm Julian Combeferre -- I'm the only member of Spec Ops aside from Agent Houcheloup right now, to be honest."  Combeferre is unsettled by Enjolras.

"Well, it's good to see we're not alone," Grantaire cuts in brusquely.  "Agent Houcheloup, you didn't tell us you already had a mutant working for you."

Combeferre's face falls, and all Grantaire can think is _Holy Christ, he'd never told anyone._

A wash of shame slams down over him.

"You never said -- it's the superintelligence, isn't it?  It's got to be," Agent Houcheloup says, nodding.  "Why didn't you ever say?"

"You didn't ask, so I didn't tell," Combeferre responds, looking down.  "And it's not.  It's not just the superintelligence."

Grantaire inhales.  _Show them, Combeferre,_ he thinks at him.

Combeferre meets his eyes, and this time, it's more curiosity and understanding than suspicion.  The young man -- barely twenty, and already a PhD twice -- toes out of his shiny, box-toed loafers, wincing as he does so.  He flexes his feet.

"That's incredible," Claquesous breathes.  "You have -- it's _physical_ for you."

Combeferre looks at her for a moment, surprised at the open wonder in her voice.  Then he smiles, just a little, and jumps.  His feet clamp onto the wing of the plane and he hangs upside down, looking at her as if daring her to say that again.

"Enjolras," Grantaire murmurs, hand hovering close to the other's elbow but not quite touching.  "I think we should go see the rest of the facility, don't you?"

Enjolras looks over at him, then back at Claquesous and Combeferre, who are looking at each other and paying no one else any mind.  He nods, and they both turn to the door, almost exactly in sync with each other.

Grantaire isn't very predisposed to hope, but he thinks, maybe, maybe something good is coming.


	3. the thrill of blood comes instantly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire convinces Enjolras to stay, and has his first encounter with Cerebro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I missed yesterday! I'll be posting up through at least the destruction of the compound tomorrow to make up for it, and to make good on my promise to Kii that they'd be Very Upset with me on Friday.

That first night in Special Ops, Enjolras steals the files on Shaw and tries to walk away with them in a briefcase.  He’s out the door before Grantaire says, following, “You know, Shaw’s got friends.  You could use some.”

“You can’t help me.”  Enjolras glances back over his shoulder, hair loose and shimmering almost golden in the crisscrossing street lamps and moonlight.  “What do you know about me, anyway?”

And that’s the question, isn’t it?

“Everything,” Grantaire admits, shrugging his shoulders, expression as open as he dares to make it.  “You think very loudly.”

_You hate very loudly_ , he thinks to himself, because really, that’s the truth of it.  Everything about Enjolras shows how much he hates Shaw, how loudly he hates this situation and everything around him — drawn-in body language, fierce expression, uncomfortable silences, all of it designed to broadcast how much Enjolras wants to be anywhere else.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.  “Everything?”

_The camps.  Shaw.  What he did to you.  I saw all of it._ Grantaire presses the thoughts into Enjolras’s head like an offering and retreats.

Out loud, he says, “I’m going back inside.  I’m not going to stop you from leaving, if that’s what you want, but just, remember, will you?  You could use some friends for what you’re trying to do.”

He turns around and walks away, pulling his awareness in with it, not wanting to know if Enjolras will listen.

He’ll find that out in the morning.

And besides, he’s still not sure if he should _want_ Enjolras to stay the way he does.

—

Enjolras stays.  Enjolras stays, and Agent Houcheloup and Combeferre tell Grantaire that they have something that might help them find more mutants.

It’s interesting to hear that word spoken without a twist of rueful irony, the way Grantaire has always said it, or with outright scorn, the way Claquesous usually does.  Grantaire thinks he might be able to get used to it, someday.

_Mutants._

He pushes the thought aside and gives Enjolras half a smile as they, Agents Houcheloup and Fauchelevent, Claquesous and Combeferre all troop out to what seems to be a repurposed amalgam of a satellite dish and an observatory.

Inside, there’s a computer taking up the majority of one side of the curved interior of the structure, and in the exact center, there’s a helmet, hooked up to dozens of wires.  It looks like something almost medieval in its structure, clumsy and thrown-together out of need, even though the thing must have taken much longer to build than the time that the U.S. government has even suspected his existence.

Enjolras sees it and immediately tenses.

_Easy,_ _be easy,_ Grantaire thinks in his direction.  He steps toward the helmet.  “This could amplify my abilities enough to find other mutants?” he asks Combeferre.

“Yes.  And when you find a mutant, that mutant’s location is triangulated and printed out on those printers over there,” Combeferre responds.  “A baseline human wouldn’t be able to operate it — trust me, the number of people I’ve tried it on, well, it’s not an insignificant sample.  I call it Cerebro.”

Enjolras is still tense.  “What a good lab rat you make,” he says, tersely, to Grantaire.

Grantaire shakes his head.  “No shaving my head, though,” he says, looking firmly at Combeferre.  “I’m a geneticist, I know that’s _exactly_ what you want to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t touch my hair,” Grantaire insists, and then puts the helmet on.

Behind him, Combeferre flips a few switches.  

Expansion, expansion is the first thing that Grantaire can feel, losing track of his hands and his body and his brain, because he’s _bigger, so much bigger_ than all of those things.  He’s vaguely aware of the physical pain, but it doesn’t matter, because quickly, quickly, he starts feeling _the others._

Mutants, dozens of them, _hundreds_ , just within a few states from his body’s location.  All under forty, but some as young as five, but all of them with the mutated X-Gene and most of them showing the signs physically or stuck afraid of what they can do, and when you fear yourself that bleeds into everything else and oh god, oh god, there are so many and they’re all so afraid of themselves and the fear bleeds back into him, the fear and the pain and it takes all he has not to cry out to them the same words he told Enjolras in the ocean, to scream _You’re not alone, I’m here, I’m here you’renotalone —_

And then it’s done, the switches flipped again and he’s _yanked_ back into his body again, blinking and sweating and his hands are clenched painfully on the edge of the apparatus.

Enjolras looks on the edge of fighting, and it takes Grantaire a moment to realize that Agent Fauchelevent and Claquesous have hold of him and are pulling him away from the apparatus, peeling his hands from the metal bar he’d been leaning on.  He’s not sure he can quite feel his extremities yet, still getting used to the feeling of being in his body again instead of rushing between so many bodies, so many _minds_.

“Are you all right?” Claquesous asks, her voice tight with concern.

“I’m —“ he looks at her, eyes wide and almost delirious.  “I’ve never felt anything like that in my life, Claquesous.”

She shakes her head, her hand tight at his elbow.  “You’re going to sit down with a cup of coffee and decompress from this, or so help me I am going to destroy this machine.”

“Why would you do that?” he asks, laughing his surprise.

It’s Enjolras who winces, who replies: “You were screaming.  You sounded like it was killing you.”

“Well it wasn’t.  I’m _fine,_ ” he insists, smiling at Enjolras.  “Really, truly, I’m fine.”

Because he is, he’s more than fine.

For the first time in his life, he feels the truth of the line.  For the first time in his life, he feels as though he truly is _not alone._

It’s a riveting feeling.


	4. oh, oh, oh thunder road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mutant-Gathering Road Trip. Also, Enjolras reveals himself to be bigender, even though there isn't really a word for that in this era.

It’s decided that Enjolras and Grantaire are going to be the ones to go collect a selection of the mutants that Grantaire saw with Cerebro, primarily because Grantaire’s the one who saw them and, from what he can discern, no one actually wants to be left with Enjolras back at base.

Seemingly, people think that Enjolras likes him, which is ridiculous, considering that Enjolras is impossible to talk to and unable to actually treat other people like other people and not like potential threats or allies.

He stays out of Enjolras’s head out of a sense of privacy — it’s clear that being read the way that Grantaire can read him makes him uncomfortable.

This is probably why Grantaire is very confused the first time he wakes up to find that Enjolras is…apparently not always a man, either. He — or, rather, today it seems to be she — doesn’t have Claquesous’s gifts, but doesn’t need them, not with the pale blue sundress and bright-white scarf tying back Enjolras’s hair.

Enjolras says nothing.

Grantaire nods. “So. Care to explain?”

“You said you’d seen everything.” Enjolras’s voice is modulated higher, breathier, the accent slightly more French now.

Grantaire thinks back, picks through the memories that had flashed across his mind in the dark water, and then he sees them, sprinkled in — past the war, in the fifties, when Enjolras had been on the run. Days of dresses and miniskirts and pin curls and “ah, yes, hello miss, how may I help you?”

“I suppose I hadn’t paid this part enough attention,” Grantaire admits. “Is there anything else I should call you?”

“No,” Enjolras says, tilting sunglasses down to look at him, eyes lined with dark kohl liner and lashes made even more prominent with mascara. “Enjolras is fine. I’m just Mademoiselle, instead of anything else.”

Grantaire nods. “All right.”

It’s not really very different than one of Claquesous’s more feminine days, Grantaire reminds himself, and they start the first trip.

—

It takes three days for them to reach the first mutant, a dancer in a strip club who calls herself Montparnasse. She has long, silver hair which, after Grantaire pokes a bit, he realizes is a physical manifestation of her mutation.

Enjolras hands her a fold of bills, and Montparnasse looks down at him. “For that, mon cher, you get a private dance.”

Grantaire follows them into the room. She tries to stop him. “Honey, if you want the same thing, it’s gonna have to cost you the same amount.”

“We were thinking,” Enjolras interjects to her, “That we’ll show you ours, if you show us yours.”

“Sweetheart, I am not that kind of —“

Enjolras floats the decanter casually from the side of satin-sheeted scarlet bed, his eyes on her.

This is Grantaire’s cue, and he slips in past her sharp confusion.

Well? he asks, brushing against her mind, and sits down on the bed next to Enjolras, looking at her instead of him even when Enjolras presses a glass of brandy into his hand.

Montparnasse smirks, and unclips the black, fringe-covered bra she’s wearing. As it falls away, the insect-wing tattoos on her shoulders suddenly are no longer tattoos, and she beats her wings and flies.

Grantaire grins, and Enjolras nods.

She comes with them.

Three more to go.

—

The second one is a taxi driver in Manhattan, who is a project to find, but who jumps at the chance to do something more. His name is Courfeyrac, and he says he's paying his way through art school with this taxi job, but he's always thought there was more for him out there.

"So, what is it that you can do?" Grantaire asks, because it's only polite.

"I can adapt to survive any danger, which, let me tell you, is a godsend in this line of work."

Courfeyrac has a bright, contagious smile, and he even manages to get Enjolras to crack one of his own during then drive back to base.

Grantaire likes the kid, and hopes the others will too, but he's far from worried about that.

—

The next two quite summarily refuse to help. They’re something of a matched set, half-drunk and sky-high when Enjolras and Grantaire find them. The first, Joly, can heal people with his mind, but only if he knows what’s wrong with them. He responds to their call by saying he’s a lover, not a fighter, and yanks his companion, Lesgle, into a steamy kiss.

Lesgle, for his part, has the reflexes and vision of an eagle, which means that even drunk, he can eloquently tell Enjolras and Grantaire to fuck off.

“We’re not even Americans,” he adds, almost gently in comparison. “This is way beyond our pay grade.”

—

When a third mutant, two states later, tells them to “Go fuck yourselves,” Grantaire isn’t expecting much out of Enjolras but a sense of vague disappointment.

He’s proven wrong when, after they’re back in their rental car and are on their way to a motel for the night, Enjolras slams his fist down on the dashboard. He dents the metal fairly severely, and then fixes it with an irritable sigh as he slumps in his seat.

“That’s three,” he says. “What if the rest are the same?”

“Shush,” Grantaire responds. “You can’t say that yet. We still have people. And besides, if it all falls through, I can just use Cerebro again.”

“I don’t like it.”

Grantaire glances at him. “What, Cerebro?”

“They’re using you,” Enjolras mutters. “And you enjoy it.”

“What? Feeling like I’m not alone? Forgive me, O Lone Vengeful Assassin, for not really wanting to operate on your level.” Grantaire keeps his eyes on the road now, because it’s getting dark and he just wants to find a motel so he can get out of the moving tin can he’s currently sharing with an angry metal-bending mutant.

Enjolras exhales sharply. “Besides, you screamed like they were killing you."

"You've said that before." Grantaire refuses to look at him, pulls into the first motel he sees that has "VACANCY" flickering in red neon. "What's it to you?"

"I don't like seeing you suffer," Enjolras says, voice soft in a way Grantaire is unused to.

Grantaire gets out of the car, blinking in his confusion. He pays for the room, his hands and the money and the key all an afterthought as he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he hasn't been giving Enjolras enough credit.

—

Marius Pontmercy says yes almost immediately, blinking owlishly up at them in the aquarium, the fish starting to return from their hiding spots. 

When they bring him back to base, the first person he sees is Agent Fauchelevent, and he falls in love with her. She laughs and asks him how old he is, only to blink with consternation when he says that he's twenty, and therefore, as he puts it with a quavering voice, well above the age of consent.

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, and Grantaire looks at Enjolras, and they only barely make it to the car before they burst out laughing.

Grantaire watches Enjolras, and she's in that pale blue sundress again and she laughs like the world is a good place again, and all he can really think is:

Dear God, Pontmercy's not the only one.

—

The last one, they find in solitary confinement. Her name is Éponine, and she looks at them with a surly sort of ingratitude that makes Grantaire uncertain as to what she could possibly be able to do, that she’d rather be in prison than out.

“I can’t control it,” she explains, on their way back to base. “I nearly killed somebody with it.”

“What is it?” Enjolras asks her, his interest clearly piqued. Of course.

She shakes her head. “I can blast people with this…sorta reddish energy. My sis calls it the ‘hula hoops of death.’”

“We’ll help you control it,” Grantaire promises, and wonders when it was that he started to be the kind of man who made promises to sixteen year old girls fresh out of solitary, but apparently, this is his life now.

Enjolras smiles at him, a quick, almost secret thing, and it sets his insides to squirming.

Eponine gives him an odd look, but doesn't say anything, and Grantaire wonders how loudly he was thinking.

—

There are a few days of calm once all the mutants are gathered. Agent Fauchelevent goes back to CIA headquarters. Agent Houcheloup sets up the younger mutants in bunks and gives them a lounge to themselves.

Grantaire, in a fit of recklessness, invites Enjolras sightseeing.

They wander around Washington D.C.'s tourist attractions like actual tourists, and wind up on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Enjolras is staring out across the view, and Grantaire is watching him.

"I'm worried," Grantaire admits. "About what the CIA is going to ask these kids to do."

Enjolras glance back at him, over his shoulder. "You brought them together."

"You helped," he replies, without any real rancor. He doesn't blame Enjolras at all -- though a distinct part of him isn't sure why Enjolras ever decided to stay -- and he knows the blonde man is right.

"The question is, can we protect them?" Enjolras asks. "Do we have that strength in us?"

Grantaire likes being in a category with Enjolras, but, as the silence drags on, he finds that he isn't sure he can say yes to the question.

He doesn't know violence, not the way that Enjolras does.

"You do," he says, softly. "That much I know."

Enjolras inhales quietly, his surprise obvious, but both of them are quiet as the sun goes down, and this time, the silence is companionable.


	5. do i wanna know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire, Enjolras, and Cosette go to Russia, and miss something very important. And painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry.

Russia…goes badly, even before it starts.  They don’t bring the new recruits, primarily because Claquesous managed to goad them all into completely _wrecking_ a government-owned statue and shattering the window of their lounge merely minutes before the were going to be given the mission.

Enjolras, for all she’s trying to hide it, is _definitely_ impressed by the carnage.  Grantaire just keeps his disappointment to himself.

These kids are _not_ laying low.  The less the government can prove they can do, the better, to his thought process.  Of course, they don’t know that, they have no reason to distrust — 

Oh, but they do.

“Can we trust six of you _not_ to completely destroy the place while we’re gone?” he asks.  Agent Fauchelevent nods as he speaks, giving them all her best disappointed expression.

Pontmercy crumbles immediately, but all of them look at least a little chastened. 

“We’ll be fine, prof,” Courfeyrac responds, giving them a mock salute.  “Swear on our lives.”

—

The plain ride to West German is tight and uncomfortable, even with Agent Fauchelevent gently interrogating them about the plan, if they even had a plan.

Grantaire can tell that Enjolras has only one objective — she wants Shaw _dead_.  And if she gets her chance here and now, well, she’s going to take it.  No matter what.  Grantaire knows he won’t be able — or even inclined — to stop her.

As soon as they land, she makes a grimace when her sensible heels hit the tarmac.  She finds a public restroom and changes, and Grantaire nods to see him come out again, military backpack slung over his shoulder.  This is the most abrupt change that Grantaire has seen in the past six weeks, but it doesn’t really matter.

Enjolras is Enjolras, as always.

The ride to the General’s house in Russia is even longer than the plane ride, and Enjolras is tense and uncomfortable and Grantaire isn’t sure why.

He reaches out, for the first time in weeks, for Enjolras’s mind.

_Hey.  You’re tense._

Enjolras blinks, but otherwise, his outward expression doesn’t change.  _I thought you weren’t going into my head anymore._

_I want to be sure you’re not…compromised.  And I don’t want to ask in front of all of these people.  Privacy and all that._   Grantaire tries to broadcast a smile to Enjolras, but mostly keeps himself contained, sharply delineating between his own mind and Enjolras’s.

A flicker of confusion, halfway between gratitude and annoyance.  _Compromised?_

_You’re not going to need me to save you from drowning again, will you?_

_Depends.  Will there be water?_

It takes Grantaire a moment to realize that Enjolras is _joking_ , and his eyes go wide without really meaning for their silent communique to be in any way outwardly evident.

_So you do have a sense of humor._   His response is teasing, a little awed.

_Sometimes._

—

“He’s not _here_.”  Enjolras’s voice is tight and taut and harsh, the accent collecting around the consonants, guttural and almost German.  “He sent his — his _associate._ ”

Shaw’s associate is a tall woman with olive skin and dark, reddish hair, dressed all in white.  She’s the telepath that Grantaire felt from a distance on Shaw’s boat, and he’s _immediately_ pulling himself back into himself — if she finds out he’s here, it’s all ruined.

“So, do we go home?” Agent Fauchelevent asks, her voice edged with steel, as though that’s the outcome she’s about to order.

“ _No,_ ” Enjolras mutters, as the woman disappears into the heavily guarded mansion.

Grantaire barely has time to send the warning _No_ , a starburst of a thought, before Enjolras is up and moving, zigzagging from the underbrush toward the house.

“Oh, Jesus _Christ_ ,” Grantaire groans.  He turns to Agent Fauchelevent.  “I’m so sorry.”

Then, he tears off after him.

Enjolras is knocking out soldiers almost offhandedly, using the metal of their rifles to knock them over or knock them out.  Grantaire goes from one to another to another, pressing into their minds the suggestion that this is all just a dream, and not even the sort of dream worth mentioning when they wake up, _just go back to sleep —_

And it’s the most he’s exerted himself since Cerebro and it’s _thrilling_ , if in a different way.

He wonders briefly if this feeling is why Enjolras is so interested in violence, if the high-riding _interest_ that borders on joy comes out of this adrenaline-power-high.

They meet at the door, but Enjolras barely spares him a nod as he proceeds inside, Grantaire still following.

Grantaire has a feeling this will not be the darkest place into which he follows Enjolras, and it is an uneasy realization as he follows him down the winding hallways.

Uneasy primarily because it feels so natural.

—

They leave the White Queen — whose name is Feuilly — for the CIA to pick up.  Enjolras had met her before, and he seemed to have a grudging respect for her.  Grantaire pretends not to be jealous.

But when they step onto the blacktop back stateside, he is immediately struck with a sense that _something is wrong something is terribly wrong oh god everything’s gone wrong._

It’s such a powerful wave of sensation that Grantaire crumples against Enjolras’s side.  

“Something’s wrong,” he mumbles, as Enjolras’s arm tightens around his waist.  “We have to — we have to get to the _kids_.”

As they get closer and closer to base, the sensation gets stronger and stronger, like bile in the back of his throat, and by the time they’re five minutes out he has to beg Agent Fauchelevent to stop the car so he can vomit.

He’s on his knees on the side of the road, heaving, and Enjolras’s arm is an iron bar around his shoulders, keeping him grounded.

“Reach out for them,” Enjolras murmurs, curling his body tightly against Grantaire’s as the last of the retching comes to a stop.  “Reach out for Claquesous, and Combeferre, and Eponine, and Montparnasse, and Marius, and Courfeyrac.  Find them and focus on them.  Whatever happened, we can deal with it when we get there.”

He must look awful, he thinks, if Enjolras is being gentle with him.

They get to their feet in tandem, but Enjolras doesn’t let go of him the rest of the way there.

And when they get there, everything inside of Grantaire goes cold for a moment.

The building is a smoking, charred _wreck_.

Four of the six are still there — Montparnasse and Courfeyrac are gone.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god_ , Grantaire thinks, unable to get out of the noise of his own head, much less into anyone else’s for answers.

“What happened here?” Agent Fauchelevent asks.  “Where’s Agent Houcheloup?”

Combeferre inhales, and Grantaire sees fresh tear tracks on his dark cheeks.

“It was Shaw.”


	6. interlude -- now they're all dead hearts to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened when Shaw came to the compound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for character death and also for shaw misgendering claquesous.

Courfeyrac _likes_ these kids.  Even Claquesous, who, to be honest, probably could be a little less tense sometimes, and especially Combeferre, who is suspicious of anything that isn't an outright insult to his feet or his brain.

He really likes Combeferre, actually.  And Combeferre tolerates him fine if he doesn't bother the other boy while he's working.

He's usually working.

But eventually, Courfeyrac manages to get him to hang out with the rest.  He pulls him out of the hangar or the lab and makes sure he eats -- which puts him immediately on Agent Houcheloup's good side, he finds -- and then, after, brings him to the lounge that he and the other recruits have commandeered.

This goes on for a few weeks, as more and more others come 'round and then Grantaire and Enjolras head out to do _something_ in Russia.

Tonight, he's even managed to convince Combeferre to play along with some of the minor mayhem -- or at least, to play pinball with him and Eponine, who blows them both out of the water before going to lay her head in Montparnasse's lap while they talk in hushed voices with Claquesous.

Courfeyrac knows an opportunity when he sees one, so he smiles and offers a rematch.  Combeferre accepts, and they play again.

Combeferre is better than he is, just a little, but Courfeyrac's fine with that.

In fact, he likes the look of concentration that slides over Combeferre's face as they play, the way he bites his lip a little.

He _really_ likes the way that Combeferre blinks and jumps a little when Courfeyrac gives him a congratulatory half-hug, grinning like this isn't the fourth time Combeferre's beaten him -- and quite soundly, too.

Combeferre turns his head to meet his eyes, a little confused by how close their faces are, and Courfeyrac just smiles; he tries to put all his intention in it, all his sly seduction and fondness both — because he likes Combeferre, but he thinks that he also _likes_ him.

And Combeferre, Combeferre’s a smart guy, his eyes widening as he realizes what Courfeyrac is getting at.

Courfeyrac smiles a little wider, nods, leans in for the kiss —

And then things start exploding.

They don’t exactly wrench apart from each other, but they certainly aren’t wrapped up in each other now.  Combeferre looks out the window, and Courfeyrac looks back at Claquesous and the girls, using his glance to try and tell them to move away from the window.

He can use his mutation to keep one of them safe, not all of them, and Combeferre is _right there_.

The screaming starts.  Glass shatters from a long way away, and there’s more sounds and Courfeyrac reaches, reaches, he’s gotta _know_ , gotta adapt to survive.

It’s why they’ve nicknamed him Darwin, after all.

There’s silence for a moment, and Courfeyrac starts tugging Combeferre back toward the others, and then —

The wall shatters inward.  Three people, three _mutants_ walk in through the smoking hole.

Courfeyrac shoves Combeferre behind him, tries to spread himself out to cover as much of the others as he can, because no matter what these intruders are capable of, Courfeyrac can handle it, but he doesn’t know if they can.

Eponine slips to just behind his arm.  They meet each other’s eyes — she has the most overtly offensive mutation, with her energy rings, and between the two of them, maybe…

“Grantaire’s not here,” Claquesous says, apropos of nothing, to the man wearing a helmet.

The man laughs and takes it off.  “I kind of figured.  Well, kids, that gives me an opportunity.”

“ _Opportunity?_ ” Combeferre asks, and his voice is pointed and angry and Courfeyrac presses back against him, tries to make him quiet.

They do _not_ need to piss off the man who just wrecked the compoud.

Especially considering he’s a deranged looking white guy with a metal helmet.  Those kinds of people with power are the kinds you do _not_ want to piss off.

“I want to make you all an offer.”  The man smiles, and it’s all the sleaze of a used-car salesman.  “Because there’s a war coming, and I have a vested interest in keeping kids like you on the winning side.”

“You’re fucking with us,” Montparnasse says.  “What they got going on in Cuba, none of them have the balls to start a real war.”

The man’s smile turns almost fatherly, and that’s even creepier.  “That’s not the war I mean.”

“You mean against the humans, don’t you.”

Courfeyrac glances back over his shoulder at Claquesous, who is staring at the man with the helmet like he’s on to something.

“Right.  Smart girl.”

“Not a girl.”

The man blinks and then seems to discard that bit of information.  “Anyway.  The war _is_ coming.  I’m starting it.  And I have an offer for you.  You can stay here, and watch the world you know come tumbling down.  Or, you can come with me, and live like kings…and queens…in the world that comes after.”

“You’re Sebastian Shaw,” Combeferre says, and his voice is cold.  “You’re the one they’re after.”

“Details.”  Shaw smirks.  “Now, who’s coming with me?”

There’s a moment of silence, and Courfeyrac forces himself not to look back, not to look away from the situation at hand.

People make their own choices.

“Fine,” Montparnasse says.  “Like queens, you said?”

“Like _queens_ ,” Shaw repeats.

She steps out of the curl of everyone’s bodies, tosses a look back at Claquesous and Eponine, and offers her hand to Shaw.

He smiles, and they all proceed to the shattered window.

Courfeyrac looks over at Eponine.  She meets his eyes, and they nod between each other.  There’s an edge of a smile in Eponine’s expression, and she presses his hand as he lowers his arms.

“Wait a second,” he calls after Shaw and his little coterie.  “I’m coming.”

Combeferre makes a noise of surprise, of — disappointment — and it takes everything Courfeyrac has not to look back at him, because damnit, they have a _plan_ , and he’s going to make this work.

He moves to stand next to Montparnasse.  

Eponine’s corner of a smile becomes a full-blown smirk, and she starts blasting.

Courfeyrac curls over Montparnasse, shielding her from the edges of Eponine’s barrage —

And then, suddenly, it stops.  It stops because Shaw is _stopping it_.  He’s pulling it into his own body, closing it, condensing it, and now Courfeyrac is afraid.  He whips around to face Shaw.

_Shit._

Shaw smiles at him.  “Smart boy.  But not smart enough.”

Then, he settles one hand on Courfeyrac’s chest and _pushes._

Courfeyrac can’t breathe, he can’t move, he’s _burning up from the inside_ and his skin is turning to ash and he’s hardening to stone and he has no idea if this is even survivable because he’s trying to adapt too fast and he swings his head to look at the others.

Eponine and Combeferre are staring at them, and, before everything goes dark, Courfeyrac thinks he sees tears in Combeferre’s eyes.

The rest is silence, heavy and dark, as Shaw and his mutants take Montparnasse away.


End file.
